


Come Hell and High Water

by reservoirgays



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 04:10:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4376732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reservoirgays/pseuds/reservoirgays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of creamsicle drabbles that I've written. Graphic descriptions of violence in most of them. Note: none of them are related to each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Hell and High Water

*ONE*

The streets were congested, traffic slow and claustrophobic. Freddy bled out steady and heavy. Thick, crimson blood dried dark brown on the pleather seats. The sticky California air felt like hell warmed over.  
It was one thing to get shot, but the feeling of his cop buddies chasing him thinking he had been taken hostage was a whole different animal. He almost felt bad.

“Almost past city limits, kiddo. Keep pressure on that.”

The cloth he was using was already soaked clean through, his own blood dripping from his fingers.

The pain was white-hot, sat heavy on his ribcage when he took in air. It felt like being sliced in half, dug through with a jagged blade, cutting through a jungle of guts. He could imagine the bullet severing his spinal cord even though it sat safely under his skin, ready to be extracted like a dead tooth, flesh strung up tight with a sewing needle and dental floss.

“Take this left, then head about 2 miles East up the road. You’re gonna wanna find a dirt road, then you’ll lose ‘em.” Every word felt like his last word, choked out from the back of his throat. Larry cut it left on nearly two wheels, taking the turn dangerously fast in an attempt to lose the cops.

When they finally got far enough off the road, Larry pulled over and peeled Freddy’s shirt off his stomach, sticky with blood and sweat. “Fuck, kid,” he said suddenly, as if the situation just hit him. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to hide his tears in fear of freaking Freddy out. “You’ll be alright,” he said, knowing truthfully that his boy probably wouldn’t make it through the night.

Freddy turned toward him in his seat, felt his bones shift under his skin. He gave Larry a seriously vacant look, eyes boring straight through his skull. “Kiss me,” he breathed, blood-slick hand reaching for Larry, “please.”

Larry handled him like he was gonna break, cupped his face in his hands and touched their lips together slow and gentle, curled his fingers in Freddy’s damp hair. “I ain’t made of porcelain,” Freddy said against his mouth.

“Coulda fooled me, doll.”

Freddy half-heartedly punched his shoulder. “Tell me you’re gonna miss me.”

“Miss you?” Larry said incredulously, pressing kisses to Freddy’s jaw and throat. “You say that like I’m not comin’ with you.” He pushed down on his palm that lay flat on Freddy’s belly, felt the blood run over his knuckles in rivers.

“Really?” Freddy said quietly, wincing when he tried to sit up.

Larry laughed and kissed him long and deep, tongues sliding together real slow. “Can’t live without you. Stupid.”

Freddy let his head rest on Larry’s chest. “Love you.”

When Freddy died, Larry waited patiently for the cops to find him. He turned up the radio, loaded gun heavy and warm in his lap. When the sirens got louder than the music, he smiled. He always pictured himself dying in a shootout.

 

*TWO*

The dreams were so bad in sickness that he would keep himself awake reading the bible in the motel drawer, thumbs pressed flat against the crisp pages, knuckles turning white with grip. The paper-thin curtains couldn’t hide the moon’s glow, thin white veil passing over the near empty room.

Fingers prying the spine of the book apart, he reached his other hand to feel his his stomach, thinking about how it wasn’t god’s pistol that got him shot. And the words under his fingertips couldn’t heal flesh wounds.

Freddy had fevers before, but not ones that were born in blood. It felt more like he was sick in the head than actually sick. He would sit up in the middle of the night, bones freezing with fear, dripping in sweat and reaching for Larry. His fever-warm skin craved the weight of another person, blood thrumming hot and urgent through his veins when Larry wasn’t close.

“You’re alright, kiddo,” he would say, half asleep, lay his palm flat across Freddy’s forehead, “burnin’ up, c'mere.”

Freddy felt weightless getting scooped up and dragged closer, the room spinning behind his eyelids, relying only on Larry’s heartbeat for the passing of time.

When he got better, they headed south for Mexico. It was like coming out of the veil, back to the land of the living. Windows down and the radio up, cigarette burning his lips, Larry’s arm draped over the back of his neck. Freddy leaned left and rubbed his cheek against his forearm, trying to catch his attention. The inside of the car was humid and sticky, but it was worth trading the A/C for the sweet California wind.

Larry turned his palm against Freddy’s neck, lifted his arm and laced their fingers together on top of Freddy’s scarred stomach protectively.

It felt like a promise.

 

*THREE*

The motel was the only place open on the empty street, traffic lights blinking dull yellow, the road haunted by thick fog and heavy eyes. In the passenger seat was a boy with lead in his belly, crimson-caked blood staining a white shirt.

He was passed out cold- for now, at least. They had to get away, no choice but to find a motel that had seen worse shit than this go down in its time. Larry killed the engine, reached over and laid the back of his hand against Freddy’s sleep-warm cheek.

“Hey, kiddo.”  
Real soft and quiet, pink glow of the vacancy sign falling over them where their skin was touching. Freddy stirred, sweat-soaked strands of hair falling in front of his eyes, hands finding his stomach at the moment of consciousness.

He stared at Larry, hands pressed against his wound, eyes dull and glazed over. Larry reached for an old water bottle he had found in the back seat, unscrewed the cap and tilted it to Freddy’s lips, wiped the water from the kid’s mouth once he’d had enough.

Freddy seemed to wake up more, then. He reached up and rubbed his tired blue eyes, hooked his fingers in Larry’s belt loop and brushed his thumb across the skin of his lower back.

“What is this place?”

Larry grabbed Freddy’s free hand, laced their fingers together and brought his hand to his lips, kissed his knuckles.

“We’re gonna get you patched up.”

The guy at the front desk didn’t make any comment about Freddy’s appearance, just accepted the $40 and handed them a room key. The room smelled like stale cigarettes and the TV was broken. Freddy stretched out across the bed, wincing as he tried to make himself comfortable.

“Don’t touch it any more, alright? We don’t wanna irritate it more.”

Larry pulled out a small bag with thread, needles, tweezers, and a bottle of whiskey he picked up on the way. It wasn’t the first time he had to dress a wound on the run, but this was different. This was his boy, laying on the bed looking like a blood-soaked fever dream, and it was his fault.

He sat down next to him on the bed and unbuttoned his shirt, unstuck the fabric from his sweat-damp chest. The blood was caked thick, dark brown on his stomach, to the point where the bleeding had almost stopped.

“Just relax, kid, okay? Just breathe. Squeeze my arm if you have to, I don’t mind. Just don’t bite me, alright?”

Freddy laughed and nodded, breath heavy and short.

His hands were shaking at his sides, eyes closed in anticipation of pain. Obviously the thread wouldn’t hold for long, but Larry needed something to work just for the night until they could get to a hospital without raising suspicion.

He handed Freddy the whiskey and propped his head up with a pillow. “You’re gonna wanna drink this first.”

It hurt Larry like hell to watch Freddy like this, needle threading through his flesh, stomach muscles contracting violently with pain, sheets under him bunched up in his fists.

“Almost done, baby, just two more.”

When he snipped the thread, he quickly grabbed the whiskey and poured it over the wound without warning. Freddy screamed in pain like Larry knew he would, but warning people made it so much worse.

“I’m sorry, kid, worst part. We’re done now.”

Larry put his shit back in the bag and made a beeline back to the bed. Freddy was crying, tears running wet down his flush cheeks.

LA nights were heavy and humid around this time of year, the kind of heat that you could feel in your lungs. He stripped his shirt off and stretched out on the bed next to Freddy, laid an arm across his bare chest.

“Hurts,” Freddy said against the hollow of Larry’s throat, head tucked under his chin.

Larry kissed the side of his neck, pushed his hair off his forehead and wiped his tears off his cheeks with the pad of his thumb.

“I know, baby.”

Outside, the neon lights were glowing hot, veins of the city starved of life. Freddy’s heart beat steady and slow under Larry’s wrist, California stars drowned out by the sins of the city.

“I love you.” Soft and quiet, whispered against Freddy’s ear. “Go to sleep. We’ll figure it out in the morning.”

“Don’t leave me,” Freddy breathed, half-asleep, kissed Larry’s collarbone. “Love you.” Sleep overtook them both.

Everything was cold.

The morning fell around him all at once, car engines and slamming doors. It was all blue. Cold air, cold dreams, cold skin.

It all felt wrong. He opened his eyes, let the air dry them and the light burn. Shook himself out of his dream and laid his palm over Freddy’s chest. And paused.

There was no pulse.

Larry’s chest heavy and thick with white-hot pain, heartstrings sliced clean apart, kissed his boy one last time.

His gun felt cold and heavy on his tongue before he pulled the trigger.

*FOUR*

The pavement wore out miles ago, dirt road rough underneath the tires. The sun was setting red in the west, sky on fire, blood orange caught reflected in the rearview mirrors.

Freddy had never been out of the city, had only seen places like this in movies and magazines. The telephone wires scraped the sky, made him feel small and entirely human. He searched for a lighter, cigarette between his lips, sticky summer breeze hitting him just right from the open window.

“About another mile to go,” Larry spoke, hand on Freddy’s knee, thumb stroking his outer thigh, other hand thrown lazily over the wheel.

The place was small and overgrown with plants, but it looked like salvation. The porch looked rotten, so Larry instructed Freddy to wait in the car, tested the hold of the wood under his weight, which seemed to be fine.

He lifted Freddy out of the car and brought him up the steps, the kid laughing with his arms wrapped around his neck, carried him bridal style over the threshold of the white doorframe. The only furniture the old house had was a couple couches, an armchair, and a bed, which Larry tossed Freddy onto.

He leaned over him, pushed his hair off his forehead and kissed him sweet and slow, tongues sliding together, bed frame creaking underneath their weight.

“Left the car door open,” Freddy said, feeling light headed, like he could float away without Larry’s weight on top of him.

“Fuck. Hold on.”

Larry dragged his palm across Freddy’s chest, went back to the car to get the diamonds and the rest of their shit. The room was hollow in his absence, silence buzzing white like the blank walls around him. He stretched his legs out on the bed, arched his back, bare toes curling in the sheets.

When Larry got back they kissed for hours, both getting themselves worked up into a frenzy, but knowing time was on their side. They spent countless nights like this, stretched out safe and warm across the bed, no noise except for each other’s heart beats and the rain falling hard on the tin roof above them.

Freddy finally got to see the stars, not blocked by the lights and pollution of the big city, safe in Larry’s arms.

Days and months turned to years, many of them, all spent in love. When Larry died, Freddy buried him by their favorite tree, wolves howling in the thick of the woods. Freddy sat with his back against the tree, spine scraping the bark, knowing his time would come soon as well because of the cancer that poisoned his lungs.

He died on a Sunday morning a couple of weeks after, autumn leaves falling from the trees.

People that found their way to the house swore it was haunted, said they could hear two voices talking to each other in different parts of the home, felt a heavy presence that made their chest swell with love.

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is appreciated. follow me on tumblr @reservoirgays


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